


The Death of Ryan Austin

by Hissara



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Courtship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hissara/pseuds/Hissara
Summary: "I have heard the eyewitness accounts, how they describe me as cold or shrewd. That he was on his knees as he begged for my affection. Some are accurate, as he was slumped in front of me when the final flower bloomed. Yet, what was begged was not as beautiful as a dying declaration of love. But this cannot be discussed without knowing who Ryan Austin was..."A perspective of Hanahaki Disease from a heir's fiancée.





	The Death of Ryan Austin

They call Hanahaki a disease of lovers and poets. One for whose love was pure but misguided, a tragedy unavoidable. I now know that not to be the case. There will be those who will demonize me in Ryan’s death and I do not blame them. It is too irregular, too iconic of an ailment to be seen objectively. I can only give my recollection of the time I spent with him. It is but a single piece of the puzzle, but one that will give context to the death of Ryan Austin. I would like to first state that Ryan did not love me. I have heard the eyewitness accounts, how they describe me as cold or shrewd. That he was on his knees as he begged for my affection. Some are accurate, as he was slumped in front of me when the final flower bloomed. Yet, what was begged was not as beautiful as a dying declaration of love. This cannot be discussed without knowing who Ryan Austin was.

Like most women in my stature, I am dealing with the politics of suitors and potential marriages. While it is not the thing I most desired with my life, there are far worse ways to spend a Saturday. My father wants to make sure his business was in suitable hands before his death, especially with my mother’s passing two years prior. While he was someone who extolled the virtues of loving your partner, he viewed stability as far more important. I would have to agree, considering my time spent with numerous suitors. The last suitor who I was close to engaging was a kind-hearted man named Matthew. While generous, he did not have the proper temperament for such a commitment. My father almost lost hope until Ryan introduced himself.

I do not need to tell you why he would be a viable partner. Not only was he dashing, but a heir to the Austin estate is a once in a lifetime chance. I’ll always remember our first meeting, his lips pursed into a tight smile. I chalked it to nervousness, yet there wasn’t perspiration like my time with Matthew. He was dry, almost too dry towards meeting a potential partner. But he was confident and educated, so the time we spent was pleasant. He was not someone you loved instantly, but someone you grew to love. There was always that inkling, that possibility where he could be the one. There were definite times I would say I loved him without hesitation. This was when the petals began.

***

It was a cool Autumn, the type with cider in the park. Our main conversation is remembered in fragments, but the spice of cider and the heat of his hand intertwined with mine will never be forgotten. Suddenly, he bent over with a hefty cough. Raspy, brutal, intense. I first thought it was a joke, the image of petals coming out of someone’s mouth absurd by itself. But the petals were too bright for the season and the blood that stuck to the petals and his mouth was all too real. That was the first time I heard of Hanahaki disease.

The legend goes that it affects those who deal with unrequited love. There is no known cure, and science is yet to find any cause beyond the old wives tale. The best answer they could give was “supernatural causes” and it is the only answer I can believe. How else could flowers bloom in something as acidic as the human body? I remember how withdrawn he was when the doctor diagnosed him. It was hard to read, but it was chilling. No empathy, but no fear. Just that tight smile.

He threw himself into his work supervising the Austin factory, yet we tried to meet whenever possible. He never mentioned the disease, so I did not push it. I did ask people who knew him, but they knew as little as I did. My theory was that his heart belonged to another, but the Austins found that impossible. Apparently he said only the most positive of comments regarding me. I could not find any cases of philandery either, so there was not a lost Lenore in his past.

Those questions reached Ryan, and who he was became obvious. Dates became deathly silent, his eyes suspicious of me the whole time. Once, before a date, I meet him at his factory. There was a commotion, apparently a laborer fell in one of the vats. Yet, when we left to our reservation, he said they knew what they were getting into. I will never forget his tone, the way he dismissed the loss of life. Was he always like that? Did the Hanahaki change him? I believed it to be the former, especially with what came later.

***

I once found him alone in his home, eyes vacant as he sat by his desk. The moment he turned to me, his normal grin changed into a twitching sneer.

“It’s you,” he muttered. “It’s always you.”

I asked him what he meant, trying to stay calm. Whatever I’d say, I knew it wouldn’t diffuse the situation.

“You don’t love me.” he growled, barely maintaining any sense of level-headedness. “That’s the only reason I’m like this! Why else are the thorns so engrained? Strangling my heart?”

I’ve never heard him so mad, so untrusting. I told him how untrue that was, how I stayed beside him during this difficult time, never pushing marriage and making it clear that it was not about the estate. He grabbed me, snarling the last two words of the night.

“Prove it.”

He forced his lips on mine, pinning me to the wall. I tried to push him away to no avail. It was not a proof of love, but a sign of control, of dominance. I do not know what would have happened had he not been overwhelmed by a coughing fit. I cannot remember how I escaped, but I recall how harsh the cobblestone sounded under my feet and the thorns that dug into my gums.

He tried to apologize after that night, but calling them half-hearted would be an understatement. He never realized how scary he was, describing it as “heated” and “too passionate”. It would be difficult to act like nothing happened, but he would dismiss it as simple a faux pas rather than the vengeful lack of trust it was. I wish that was the only case of something egregious.

***

I received letters afterwards. Bundles upon bundles of letters. They began as you’d expected. Updates regarding work and home and family, the type common at the start of our courtship. However, they morphed quickly to vitriol. Not only accusatory, but synchronized. His friends, family, all alongside his own, all with the same accusations and toxicity. I stopped opening them, letting the chocolate hidden in them melt, knowing that such an orchestrated effort would never be proof of love or dedication. Just a horrible determination. I had to pretend nothing was unusual, even after that stormy night in May.

There was nothing more terrifying than his visage in the dark standing by my door. I recall the lightning, how it illuminated the countenance of a man transformed by rage and pain. Blood stained his shirt, the thorns piercing his cheeks and jaw. There was a flower growing near his eye, blooming with a brilliant blue that stood out in the darkness. Had it not been for his fits, I swore he would have burst through the door. I’ve spent many a restless night waking to bright blues and dark reds.

I was trapped by his side and forced to ignore his bandages, his bleeding mouth. You could see how he yanked out the flowers that grew, the root-like scars I had to pretend didn't exist for possible redemption. Maybe if I fought a little harder, held his hand a little tighter, then the seeds inside him would wither. That proved not to be the case, no matter how I stayed by his side. He only got more furious with my existence.

***

The way it culminated was as you’d expect and as you have seen. He fell to his knees as the final flower bloomed. Accounts described it as an explosion of the body itself, but the blooming was under layers of stained clothing. I wish something so fantastical was at the forefront of my mind. However, I remember more clearly his dying words.

Our walk was cut short by his telltale cough, but something I’ve grown used to turned to a guttural scream. I rushed to his side, but he used the last of his strength to push me away. I could only stare as the screams turned to dry heaves. I’ve never seen such a look of betrayal before in his eyes. Before his final breaths, with bile on his lower lip and thorns at his throat, he asked me with a simple, brutal hiss.

“Why weren’t you _mine_?”

***

I do not care about the gossip regarding me, such is to be expected when Hanahaki is on everyone’s lips. No, what I care about is how Ryan Austin believed them to his grave. This is why I think he did not love me. He was never trusting of my affection unless it was on his terms and his alone, and there was nothing nurturing with his terms. They say not to speak ill of the dead, but it’s hard not to when his last words were so heartless.

I don’t know if I will heal from the death of Ryan Austin. Maybe I will try to learn more about Hanahaki, maybe it will take me too with the time I spent with him. Nevertheless, it will take many a year to remove the doubts that have been sowed. I both hate and miss Ryan now, and I don’t know when I can forgive him.

They tell me that the flowers from his body were beautiful, even the ones he ripped off himself. A dazzling blue, far gentler than the man they grew from. You can lie about Ryan’s kindness or generosity, but I vehemently reject any opinion that treats anything grown from him as beautiful. There is nothing wonderful or meaningful that can come from that venomous man, and no flowery perfume will cover such vulgarity.

_-Diane Weston_

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this story awhile back, but I wanted to get it out of the open. It's weird to publish writings again (the last time was during that obligatory brony phase a bunch of kids had), but it made sense to post it on AO3 when its main subject is so fanfic-driven. I wanted to try something different with Hanahaki. I'm currently working on something a bit more in the fanfic side of things, so if you wanna see more work from me, don't hesitate to tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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